


The scratch of green velvet

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Intern Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Mild Sexual Content, Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, Older Man/Younger Woman, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: He was in a three-piece, she was wearing a cocktail dress, and it was all rather risqué.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Tom Riddle
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	The scratch of green velvet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geranium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geranium/gifts), [Corpus Christi](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Corpus+Christi).



> Thanks to some lovely, and very constructive comments on previous fics, I know I've absolutely butchered Bellatrix's character in the past, so I hope that this is a more respectful interpretation, but that being said, I'm always amenable to further critique if you have it.

When Bellatrix was younger, her mother had taught her about handsome, powerful, older men; she’d spoken of what they wanted, and what they might do to get it. It was the politics of womanhood, her mother said, just something all young ladies would have to endure, and it was to be an endurance—the penance of having been born a woman—for a young woman of good breeding was to have standards. 

She doubted her mother would approve of her current involvement if she knew its details. 

Bellatrix leaned against the doorframe, her hip pressing into the wood as she looked at the subject of her liaison. Tom— _her_ Tom because no one else was allowed to call him that, not even his closest associates—was sitting back in one of the leather chairs; one hand was holding a glass of wine, the other was thumbing through a stack of papers fastened together. He looked so involved with it all, that Bellatrix continued to hang back for a moment longer, just resting her hand on the wood of the frame, watching how his shoulders shifted, and how, every so often, he raised the glass back to his mouth. 

But, for all her quietness, he must know she was there because he wasn’t stupid, and she hadn’t been _trying_ to sneak up on him. Some day she would have to try, just to see whether she could. It wouldn’t be worth it today, after all, she was already later here than she intended because she had just _had_ to tell her soon-to-be brother-in-law where she was going and what she was doing there. 

Though, watching Malfoy scowl like that had been worth every wasted minute. 

Tom pulled her from her thoughts. “Are you coming in?” he said, not looking up from his papers because he never did; feigning disinterest was one of his myriad talents, though, anyone who knew him well would have spotted that he hesitated—his hand hovering just for a second, before lowering back down. It was a deliberate pause, as he waited, considering how exactly to navigate this…

Liaison. Affair. Impropriety. 

Because that’s what it was when stripped back to the bone: a younger woman and an older man; an employee and her boss; a lady and a gentleman who wasn’t her fiancé. Her mother would have called it salacious, her grandmother would have declared it quite the scandal, and her great-grandmother would likely have swooned at the mere mention of it, but to Bellatrix, it wasn’t nearly as dramatic. 

“Obviously I am,” Bellatrix said, pushing herself off the doorframe and stepping into the room; her heels clicking against the wood of the floor as she did so. Despite the sound, Tom didn’t turn his head in any acknowledgement, and nor did he cast his eyes up to watch her directly; instead, he kept his gaze steady on his papers and continued his apparent disinterest. 

He was good at that, but like everything else he did, it was a front—merely a construction that he put on display—and underneath, he was undoubtedly paying intimate attention to every small action that she undertook, from the pace of her steps, and the weight she placed on each floorboard, to the precise words that she spoke. 

As such, Bellatrix moved slowly and unevenly, after all, where was the fun in being predictable? There was no denying that there were plenty of witches and even more women, if one was inclined towards that particular, mundane, breed, that could easily have been in this situation, given that Tom was such a powerful, intelligent, and of course, deliciously attractive, man. 

But _they_ weren’t invited.

Bellatrix was the only one, and she didn’t get here by being a predictable, pretty thing with a head full of air—no—she’d _earned_ her place here. She was invited into the Minister for Magic’s private residence, and into his study, and later into his bed because she _deserved_ it, because _she_ was the best. 

And he couldn’t resist the best. 

She stepped closer to him, reaching out her hand to scrape her nails along the length of the leather sofa, scratching over the dips of the seams and the curves of the ridges. It was amusing to watch the way that his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, and his hands paused at the grating nature of the sound. But Tom was sensitive—if that was the right word for someone whose emotions were all but alphabetised—to noises like that, and, anyway, Bellatrix liked to watch him wince. 

Because, quite frankly, it was amusing to see him squirm, after all, he was the type of man that was used to getting what he wanted, and what he wanted when he was working was silence— _well_ —unless it had something to do with her. Bellatrix had to admit, she rather liked being the only one who could just march into his office and get whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it.

Like an invitation to his home.

Still, just as careful, and just as gentle, she lifted her fingers from the leather and, instead, skimmed the tips over the back of his neck. With an unreplicable elegance, Bellatrix ran her fingers over the curve of his skin, dipping beneath the stiff line of his collar and admiring how she could so easily make a shiver run visibly down his spine. But Tom continued to keep his gaze on his papers and his wine, and the tension in his shoulders. 

“Care to share your intentions, Bella?” he said, not looking up, but using a mildly cautionary tone, as though she was a cat about to execute some ill-intended plan to irritate him. _Hardly_ , given that Bellatrix suspected he was rather going to like her intents. 

“My intentions, Tom?” she repeated back with a smile, “oh, I can assure you, they are entirely dishonourable.” As she spoke, Bellatrix rounded the corner of the settee and came to stand in front of him; Tom didn’t raise his eyes, but his fingers paused on the paper he was flipping through, and the hand holding his wineglass clenched just slightly. 

It was sweet, really, to watch how, even a man like him, could forget himself _because_ of her. So, as casually as she could, because moments like this still made her heart flutter, Bellatrix stripped off her heels; stepping out of them and toeing them away to lean against the leg of the low table. Equally casually, she glanced about the room and noted how Tom was watching her, even if he was pretending not to, and she would be lying if she said that didn’t give her an additional thrill. Just the thought of him not being able to help himself, not that she blamed him. 

After all, her dress _was_ tailored to flatter her figure. 

She kept that dress on because why should a woman take her clothes off to do what a man could do with them on? And, anyway, it was a very nice and very expensive dress that she’d probably never wear again—because Blacks didn’t wear clothes twice—so she might as well get some use out of it. Especially given how much Tom liked it—something he’d been making abundantly clear all evening. 

Bellatrix smiled at the memory of his hands on the small of her back, the fingers drawing small circles that had earned him a kiss in the cloakroom; she continued to smile as she walked over to him, leaving on her stockings, as well as her favourite lipstick. For, what was the point in kissing if it didn’t leave behind a mark? This particular shade was so dark and dramatic, and apparently _‘not an appropriate colour for the working environment, Miss Black,’_ but it looked so good against Tom’s skin, not to mention, she liked the way that it stained his shirts. 

Speaking of clothes, that suit Tom was dressed up in was absolutely delectable; a real treat for the eyes, and one that almost made Bellatrix’s mouth water just to look at because who knew men could be so attractive? One certainly wouldn’t have guessed it from all the Ministry fodder she had to endure, all dressed up in their garish pinstripes or worse, the basic, overdone, blue suit. 

It hadn’t taken Bellatrix long to realise that impeccable tailoring was a must for any relationship, and, alongside that was the discovery that, apparently, good taste was acquired with age. For, all the boys that wanted her attention were always in the latest styles, whether they flattered them or not, and they wore the most garish colours that made them all look like peacocks. In contrast, men like Tom were more subtle; classic cuts paired with sharp dashes of colour that complemented rather than overpowered their natural physicality. 

Part of it was, surely, in-built—merely part of one man’s hypnotic personality—but the rest came with age and power; two qualities that Tom had certainly acquired. Both changed a man. Both did so for the better—they made a man re-evaluate his attitudes and his attributes and his acquisitions; a man who wielded power well proved himself.

There were more times that Bellatrix could count that she’d watched Tom wield power the way it should be; he held it in the palm of his hand like a brush and painted the world how he wanted it to look. Of course, sometimes the colours blurred, and the illicit and the immoral blended with their permissible counterparts so seamlessly—not that it mattered to Tom—not when he could play power as whatever instrument he needed to; be it brutally cruel or ever so kind. 

That was what power _should_ be, and just thinking about it was enough to get Bellatrix’s skin too hot and her pulse _throbbing_. Merely _knowing_ what sort of man he was, underneath all those smiles, got her going, though, part of that might have been that handsome, powerful, older men had always been her type. If Andromeda knew, she would surely trace back its psychological beginnings to some ‘traumatic’ event in their childhood, but it wasn’t that, nor was it what her cousins so obnoxiously called ‘daddy issues.’

Older men were simply better: they knew what they were doing, and they knew what they wanted, and they had no time for nonsense—and unlike young men and silly boys—they didn’t play childish games with jealousy and flattery. Bellatrix had, frankly, lost track of the number of times Cissy had come home crying because she and Malfoy had had a misunderstanding. 

Bellatrix shook her head—she didn’t want to be thinking about Malfoy or her sister right now, not when she had Tom in front of her, looking up with those brown doe eyes that could get him anything he wanted. She swallowed, the velvet of her dress was rubbing against her thigh like it had been all evening and it made her hot and—dare she say—hungry to get something between her teeth. 

Something like Tom. 

He was watching her now, his eyes tracing her, rather, tasteful neckline; enough fabric to leave a certain degree of mystery and enough skin to whet a man’s appetite, and if the way Tom was looking at her was anything to go by, his appetite was thoroughly whetted, and he was just _aching_ to move on to the main course. The way that he was currently looking at her would make anyone else melt but instead, it alighted something in the base of her stomach. A feeling that was hot and fluttery, the accretion of oxygen that swells the burning of a bonfire.

So Bellatrix decided to tease, 

“But you like dishonourable, don’t you?” she said, continuing their conversation even as she spread herself over his lap like a cat: the perfect balance between lazy and provocative, and she felt him tense up, just a fraction. And, perhaps, that was the natural reaction to having an attractive woman up so close and personal, but maybe it had something to do with the fact it was _her_. 

She hoped it was her. 

Immediately, his spare hand came up to hold her waist—his palm pressing into her waist and his thumb brushing lightly along the seam of her dress in a gesture that was as soothing as it was suggestive.  
“I do when you’re involved,” Tom murmured, the pace of his words, slow, and the tone, deep and warm and hypnotic like a snake’s coils before they start to squeeze. As he spoke, he dipped his hand lower until it was lying, heavy, over her hipbone and there was an increasing warmth pooling low in her abdomen. 

But he should know by now that this wasn’t how things went between them. Bellatrix clicked her tongue disapprovingly, and, instantly like a child caught stealing sweets, Tom stopped moving his hand, though he kept it there, so heavy, on her hip. She leaned in closer to him, skimming her nails over his shoulders and the base of his neck as she did so, watching in mild amusement as Tom shuddered. 

“You know you’re not allowed to touch,” she murmured, leaning in even closer so that her teeth caught on the shell of his ear, and she could all but hear the sound of Tom’s jaw clenching and the molars grinding together. “After all,” she continued, “you know that wouldn’t be _proper_ , Minister.” 

There was something so indecent about using his title just to remind herself what she’d got herself into, and to remind him of what exactly he was doing, and _who_ he was doing it with; after all, there had to be something morally reprehensible about seducing the daughter of one’s most loyal aide. Not that Bellatrix would consider herself seduced, because the term rather implied a degree of submission and _that_ had never been her forte.

Rather, she’d always had quite the proclivity for the opposite. A partiality for holding partners still and watching them squirm at their own artificial helplessness, Rodolphus hated her doing it. But Tom… he was good—dutiful—and at her request, he obediently dropped his hand back down to the leather of the settee, and it stayed there, scratching at the seat seams with the tips of his nails. 

Bellatrix smiled at him, though, in her periphery she could see his other hand, where he was still holding the wineglass—three fingers wrapped tightly around the glass and the stem resting against his palm. Without dropping his gaze, Bellatrix took the glass from his hand—it was warm and smooth to touch—and she raised it to her mouth. For a moment she paused, her lips resting on the edge, and then, _oh so slowly_ , she tipped it back and swallowed a mouthful of his wine, smiling against the rim as she did so because he couldn’t take his eyes off her. 

She put the wineglass, now empty, down beside them, and with the same intimacy as before, Bellatrix pressed herself closer to Tom, so that her hair must have been tickling his neck, and the heavy scent of her perfume was the only thing he could smell. That, thick, sweet, scent he’d bought her because he liked buying her things, and she liked having things bought for her. It held a novelty that she couldn’t get from buying them herself; just the thought that he took the time out of his day to find her something she’d like made her feel fuzzy inside.

Malfoy didn’t take the time to buy things for Cissy; she had to buy them for herself with his money, which was good, in a way, really, because Cissy had far superior tastes to her fiancé. But, even so, Bellatrix couldn’t help but be a little smug that only one of them received non-obligatory gifts, and for once it wasn’t Cissy and her little fairy tale romance.

Still musing on it, Bellatrix ran her fingers carefully over the soft material of Tom’s tie—it was the same shade as her dress—and began to work her fingers into the threads of fabric, pulling at the knot until it started to loosen.

Rod had given her quite the look when she’d matched her dress for the evening to Tom’s tie and not his own, but he didn’t do anything about it. After all, what could he do? Demand, that his boss gets his hands off his future wife? Though, thinking about it, Bellatrix would have liked to watch Rod do that, just as she’d have liked to watch Tom ignore him, because, no matter what Rod might think, Tom was twice the man he’d ever be. 

For, Tom was _always_ the most magnetic person in the room, pulling lesser people into his orbit as a star pulls planets. In all honestly, Bellatrix thought as she slid his tie from his neck, politicians had no right to look so good, but Tom was no mere politician. His critics called him a demagogue with a blasé attitude towards the truth, which was actually a fairly accurate description; though their snide tones and sneering expressions suggested they didn’t respect the effort that it took to cultivate such an appeal. 

Her father did, though; he’d done his utmost to get her an internship with the Minister himself. 

Of course, his reasoning had been that it would be good if she went out and did some _real_ work. It was important to him that she learnt the art of politics, even if was only superficially, that way, he said, she would appreciate the role that the family played, and indeed how integral _she_ was to it all. Bellatrix thought about him now as she sat in the living room, playing with the buttons on Tom’s shirt, and undoing the topmost one. Her father had been right, in a way, this was a _valuable_ experience, and she certainly understood how _integral_ she was to it all now.

That much was obvious by the way Tom looked at her—like he never wanted to be without her; like she _meant_ something important, and that she was more than just a chess-piece for other people to position in ways that would only advantage them. He didn’t want to position her, he wanted her to position herself, and if it so happened to be in his lap, then he wasn’t going to complain. 

Bellatrix smiled to herself, her fingers still lingering at his neck—rubbing lightly just under the collar until he was shifting under her, his hands clenching and unclenching. Her smile widened, it was easy to turn him on; to wind him up like wool around her fingers until his eyes were glazed over, and his fingers were itching to touch. Though, that would imply that it was a very one-sided affair, and it certainly wasn’t. She’d been aching for something ever since she’d arrived at that afternoon’s drinks, and Tom had paused mid-conversation to take a proper look at her; passing his eyes over her so slowly and wetting his mouth like he was looking at dessert.

And maybe he was, but only good boys got dessert. 

Tom wasn’t always good, and he had a habit of pushing limits, but always with a smile and a persuasive murmur against her throat; he was doing it now. Leaning closer to her, and letting the heat of his mouth trail down the very crest of her throat, even as his hands crept up over her knees—so warm and smooth and gentle against her skin.  
“Surely, I’m allowed to touch here?” Tom said, sliding his hands up so that the tips of his fingers hooked underneath her dress.

“Oh, I’m not so sure, Tom,” she murmured back, “what makes you think that you _deserve_ it?” Bellatrix continued, as she slid her own fingers under the hem of his waistcoat and pressed them into his skin, just to feel the warm humanness of it. To remind herself that this was a man—her man—that she could do whatever she wanted with and he wouldn’t protest. 

Because he was simply intoxicated by her—that much was obvious. Bellatrix could see it, and she wouldn’t be surprised if _everyone else_ could too. It was infused into the way that his eyes had been lingering on her all evening, and not just on the curve of her waist and the gentle arch of her back, but also the lines of her neck, and her eyes. Tom just couldn’t stop himself looking. Nor could he stop his hands wandering when no one else was looking, but not in the same way as Nott’s did in the records room. Rather, Tom’s hands always found their way to her shoulder, his fingers wrapping over the ridge and pushing into the bone, or his shoulder pressed against her own. 

Just once, when nobody had been watching, he’d slipped his hands down her arm, his fingers brushing over her wrist, and the nails pressing into her palm. It hadn’t hurt per se, but she couldn’t possibly ignore it, even now, a good couple of hours later she could feel the slight crescent-moon indents pressed into the centre of her palm; they felt like battle scars. 

Of course, her mother had never mentioned a good sort of pain, though she’d barely mentioned the bad sort either. Bellatrix’s full education in the acts of cruelty that disguised themselves as love came from the painting on the farthest East Wing corridor on the fourth floor; the woman there—some distant relation or other—said that violence had no place in love, she was right too, at least, to a degree. 

Violent men were certainly unworthy of love. 

But there was something beautiful in a particular sort of violence. Consensual violence that bloomed from love rather than cruelty was just irresistible, and Bellatrix would be lying if she said she didn’t like the rosy fingerprints imprinted in her thighs—a good sort of pain—so too did she like leaving marks in Tom’s skin. The sort that started red and always ended up brown or purple or blue, and spread out like in the pretty constellation that was her namesake. The sort he could heal instantly if he wanted to.

He never did. 

Because he liked them too. And maybe, it was the physical variant of pain that Tom craved, but somehow that seemed unlikely, so maybe it was the desirability that came with being hurt in the name of love. Maybe, Tom just liked the tangible reminders that he had someone who adored him and always would.

“So?” Bellatrix said, prompting him a little as she worked her fingers into the small buttons of his waistcoat, slowly unfastening each one, “why _do_ you deserve it?”

“Because I deserve everything,” Tom replied, so casually, and with a confidence that only man who genuinely believed it could pull off. That sort of arrogance on someone who hadn’t achieved anything would be unattractive at best, and outright repulsive at worst, but such arrogance on a man, or indeed a woman, who _had_ achieved was quite a different story. They were entitled to superiority because they had earned it because everyone should _earn_ their place in the world. 

Even Tom.

Even Bellatrix herself. 

Once they had that position, they would be rewarded however they wanted, and Tom just wanted to hear her praise him. He wanted her to tell him just how _good_ he was, just how handsome and powerful and capable; how he made her feel to be around, and she’d tell him because Tom was _weak_ for praise and would take it straight from her hand like a dog takes scraps. It made her feel powerful, in a way, to see a man like him on his knees for _her_. 

Her mother had spoken of power too, but her version was that _men_ were powerful, and behind each and every one of these powerful men there stood an astute and faithful woman supporting him. It was a sweetly sentimental image of wonderland suburbia that her mother had always idealised, and, as much as Bellatrix appreciated her mother’s wisdom, she had no intentions of standing _behind_ anyone: she was a Black after all, and Blacks did not stand in the shadows when they could be up front and centre. 

So, Bellatrix wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and shifted her hips forward enough that Tom inhaled sharply, and his lower lip caught between his teeth—all pretty and pink. Like this, she could run her thumbs over the nape of his neck and work them into his hair, and she could pull the two of them close enough that she could watch him get so caught up in her that he forgot himself. 

“Have you ever considered,” she said slowly and still rubbing the pads of her fingers over his neck, “that you’re hooked on me, Minister?” The words were a little too breathy for her liking—a little too hitched—when they should have been deep and low, and somewhere between evocative and sultry. 

But Tom still smiled. “It’s a wilful dependence, I assure you,” he said, increasing the pressure of his hands against her thighs, “though I especially like you in that dress,” he added, murmuring the words against her throat, his mouth open and warm, and his nails scrapping over her skin. 

“Oh, I know you do,” said Bellatrix, as she smoothed his hair behind his ear. “I know…,” she repeated, “…because you can’t take your eyes off me.” As she spoke Bellatrix shifted her hips forward, grinding down on him until he made a soft noise in the back of his throat and dug his hands harder into her skin. He wanted to touch her properly now; _really_ wanted to touch her properly. 

Tom smiled, “you like that,” he murmured, catching another groan on his tongue and looking at her with those gorgeous eyes. Bellatrix had always been told that her own eyes were beautiful but compared to his, they felt dull—merely pewter rather than Stirling silver. Tom’s eyes were dark, so dark and dazzling; they flickered with something both unknown and unknowable as though they contained the infinite nature of the cosmos condensed down into the size of a coin. 

“So do you,” she replied, “in fact, I bet you’ve been thinking about it—thinking about _me_ in this dress—all evening, haven’t you? To complement the provocativeness of the words, Bellatrix dipped her hand between them, running the pad of her thumb over the inner seam and watching at how quickly Tom dropped his head back against the ridge of the chair; the flushed curve of his throat gaining a new measure of prominence. He’d always had a pretty throat, and Bellatrix had been aching to get her hands around it. Not hard enough to choke him, but enough to show that she _could_. 

“So what if I have?” Tom said, interrupting before the thoughts of suffocating him could turn into reality. She’d do it one day—just to know what it felt like—but for now, Bellatrix shifted again and pressed her hand more purposefully between his thighs, just to feel _how_ inappropriate those thoughts were getting. 

Because men were like marzipan—soft and mouldable—you just had to warm them up, and by all accounts, Tom was more than a little warmed up. It was obvious to see in the tension of his jaw and the way that his pupils were spread wide, to the sound of those deep, controlled, breaths he was taking. In fact, Bellatrix could practically taste it in the air; that light fizzing of his magic and how it tingled on her skin and only served to increase the throbbing that eating away at the lining of her stomach.

As she teased with her fingers and ground down on him with her palm, Tom closed his eyes and arched his neck and exhaled all slow and tight; his hands loosening their grip on her thighs as he shifted to press himself into her hand whilst feigning pulling away.

“Oh, you don’t have to pretend you don’t love it,” Bellatrix murmured against his ear, “I already know how much I turn you on.” As she spoke, Bellatrix scraped the tips of her nails back of over Tom’s neck, before leaving behind his skin, and smoothing her hair behind her ear; her fingers running right down the length of the curls. Tom’s gaze followed the movement, quite naturally, but they lingered at the lines of collarbones, before dipping a little lower. 

“Eyes up here,” she said, digging the nail of her thumb into his chin and raising his gaze up to her own. He was just perfect like that, with the light falling above him and making his eyes so shiny and dark, and highlighting the slight upward curve of his mouth, even as his teeth dug into his lip. He looked so good that Bellatrix couldn’t help but lean in and get herself a taste of that abused lip.

It wasn’t much of a kiss; merely a quick, chaste, thing that had him giving up all pretences and pulling her closer to him. Bellatrix just laughed lightly and kissed him again, harder this time and with her tongue. “You want to fuck me, don’t you, Tom?” she murmured, right into his mouth until the words blurred between their lips, “you want to fuck your intern.”

“Bella,” he murmured, his hands hiking higher, even as the syllables caught on his tongue and caused the warning tone to dribble out ineffectively over his tongue. But Tom looked so… hot and bothered like that; his hair so perfectly styled at odds with the speckled flush heavy on the high of his cheeks and sliding down each sharp angle. Having to look at him when he was like that was almost _unbearable_ and only seemed to magnify the aching between her own legs.

“Just _tell_ me what you want me to do to you,” she said softly, “and maybe I’ll do it.”

**Author's Note:**

> One day I'll learn how to properly write endings.


End file.
